


we wreak havoc with our hearts

by flimsy



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Choking, Developing Relationship, Face-Fucking, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1786096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flimsy/pseuds/flimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry finds that he can't keep things separate; neither can Louis. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <i>Harry tousles his hair, smoothes it back, shrugging. “Alright,” he says. “I’m, you know, outside if you need anything.” </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Yeah,” Louis replies. “Sure.” He doesn’t look like he’ll be needing Harry, and Harry tells himself that that’s okay. They’ve both got their moods sometimes or maybe the timing isn’t good, and if it’s not then that’s alright as well. Harry can respect that. And it’s not like this is their first tour; Harry knows that Louis will come around. He always does.<br/></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	we wreak havoc with our hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mediaville](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediaville/gifts).



> A gift for the wonderful [mediaville](http://mediaville.tumblr.com/), via the Bestboys Summer Smut exchange!
> 
>  
> 
> Many, many thanks go out to [Ayla](http://checkthemargins.tumblr.com/) for handholding and betaing, to [Melanie](http://magicalrocketships.tumblr.com/) for beta and britpick and to [Sam](http://dazy-laze.tumblr.com/) for britpicking ♥♥

Everything about Brazil is intoxicating – the scent and taste of everything, the noises and the colors and the salty tartness of the air. It makes Harry feel unconnected and loose, like the tension before the start of the tour and the tension that’s yet to come are not part of his immediate timeline, like this point in space is isolated. 

He bakes in the sun until the skin on his elbows is peeling and gets a stick and poke tattoo from one of the blokes frequenting the hotel bar. He shows off the laurels on his hips and messes around in the pool; he has too many fruity drinks and plays cards with Ben and gets up early for his morning run, then sleeps in the sun with a hat covering his face.

It feels like a proper holiday. The other boys are around, mostly Zayn, asleep by the pool, and Harry enjoys the comfortable silence between them, the heat and the drinks served in cups made from real fruit while the pool is virtually theirs with only the occasional elderly couple lounging nearby. 

The second day, some time after noon, Harry wakes splayed out on his belly, disturbed by the light reflecting off the water. Zayn is gone, probably back inside, and everyone else is asleep around him. He rubs his eyes, drops his head against the chair, yawning, then turns onto his back and lets the sun blind him. He has to think of Louis suddenly. He would love all of this: the relative silence at noon, the strength of the sun and Harry wonders why he’s not here, wonders why he hasn’t seen him in what feels like days and days. 

He stumbles to his feet, drops his pina colada coconut off at the bar and wanders back up to the entrance of his suite, where Preston opens the door for him with a nod and half a smile. It’s much cooler inside, calling forth goosebumps that blossom all over his thighs and arms, the back of his neck. 

He shimmies out of his trunks, showers quickly to rid his skin and hair of chlorine, and then, dressed in shorts and a shirt that he hasn’t bothered to button up, sneaks out into the hallway and to Louis’ room. 

It’s dark inside, the air-conditioning blasting and the curtains drawn shut tightly; there’s a lump of blankets and pillows on the bed and Harry takes one careful step and then another, the expensive, polished hardwood floors quiet beneath his feet. 

As he draws closer, the telltale glow of a phone screen betrays Louis’ attempts at appearing asleep and Harry stops at the foot of the bed and knocks his knees against it, allowing his body to tip over bonelessly, earning an annoyed sound from Louis.

“Get _off_ ,” he grunts, wiggles, and Harry digs his knees in and stays, burying against the warmth Louis is hiding away under the blankets. The too-cold air in here is making the hair on the back of his neck stand up, fingers growing icy. 

“Why have you got the aircon on so high, Tommo?” he asks, trailing a hand up what he believes is Louis side and then poking a finger against his ribs. Louis squeaks a bit, bucks up, but otherwise does his best to stay covered. Harry doesn’t quite understand why he’s holed up in here with the air-conditioning on so high icicles might be forming soon, yet buried under what feels like every blanket available in the suite. 

“‘Cos it’s hot outside,” Louis replies stubbornly. Harry drops his forehead against Louis’ back and groans, squeezing at his shoulders. 

“Are you alright?” he mumbles against him.

Louis seems to shrug and finally proceeds to extract himself from under Harry, squirming until Harry slides off. He turns on the light on the bedside table and pads over to the window to push one of the curtains to the side, allowing more light into the room. 

Harry flops onto his side and watches him, the way he moves, the way his back curves in his loose vest and the way his trackies hang off his hips. His phone is propped up against his pillow, unlocked, and Harry is momentarily tempted to reach over to peek at the screen, put it back before Louis would ever know, but he doesn’t. 

He still feels warm from the sun outside, can still taste the salt and the colors and the fruity cocktail he had not long ago. There appears to be little use in unsettling the tranquillity he’s accumulated throughout the day. 

“Come out to the pool with me,” he says instead; Louis looks back over his shoulder, his eyebrows cocked, bottom lip stuck out, giving Harry a look like he thinks he’s a fool. 

“What, and find shots of me with my knob out all over twitter an hour later? No, thanks.” He rolls his shoulders and stretches his arms over his head, a bit like he’s showing off, but Harry knows that he’s not. Since they’ve gone back on the road, it’s been off between them, not like last time when they stumbled into each other effortlessly even after their break from tour. 

Harry hasn’t given it much thought up until this point because he’s been too distracted – potentially created distractions for himself, too – but it’s hard to stay focused on anything except Louis, now that they’re alone together for the first time in what feels like months. Maybe it even has been months. 

“It wasn’t _out_ ,” he replies belatedly and rolls onto his back, rubbing his hands over his face, pushes his fingers into his still wet hair, the heels of his palm into his eyes until he sees stars spiraling out from the darkness. “Maybe taking a little peek. Enjoying the sun. Big pal’s got to breathe some time.”

There’s rustling and a moment later the hum of the airconditioning dies down and Louis’ body dips the bed next to Harry. 

“ _Big_ pal,” Louis mocks; he settles down next to him, his shoulder knocking against Harry’s elbow when Harry removes his hands from his eyes and turns his head to look at him. 

“Wait, are you saying my _little_ one is not big?” he asks, can’t help but smirk a bit at Louis’ drawn up eyebrows. Louis is playing with the cap of a water bottle, frowns at Harry, unscrews it and takes a long sip, his throat working as he drinks, his fingers leaving clear markings on the otherwise fogged up plastic. 

“You just haven’t gotten a good look in a while,” Harry finally concedes, carefully watching Louis’ face, the way the corners of his mouth quirk temporarily. “You could now, you know, refresh your memory, if you’d like,” he continues, tracing his hand down his chest, over the ink, to the waistband of his shorts, wiggling his thumb under it to pull it up and allowing it to snap back against his skin. It leaves a sting that spreads up his spine and through his groin, and he licks his lips, fixating back on Louis who’s staring back at him, his mouth still sealed to the top of the bottle. It’s dented now, like all Louis is doing is sucking in air, deflating it, and Harry reaches up and takes it from his hand, wrapping his lips around the spit-warm collar of it, taking two long, deliberate sips. 

He stops and wipes his mouth, and finds Louis watching him, eyes narrowed. “What?” he asks, smiling. 

“Not that memorable.” He sounds a bit snippy and Harry frowns, setting the water bottle against his chest, shivering when the cold hits his skin. 

“Your prick, I mean,” Louis elaborates. He waves his hand about and then pulls himself up, propping his back against the backrest of the bed, leaving nothing but the crotch of his trackies in Harry’s line of sight. 

“You’re hurting its feelings,” Harry counters and pokes Louis’ thigh. “You’re making it _sad_.” He pats his groin and looks up at Louis who’s watching, with one brow cocked. 

“It’ll live,” Louis finally says; he snatches the bottle back from Harry and finishes off the last bit of water, dropping it on the floor next to the bed. “Big ego and all that.”

Harry holds his breath, focuses on the quietness inside of him and then back on Louis who seems tense enough to snap at any moment, rupture like the overtaxed string of a bow that’s seen one battle too many. 

“If you don’t want the pool,” Harry starts carefully, “we could watch a film?” He sits up, teases against Louis’ thigh with his little finger, holding Louis’ gaze steadily. “Maybe get off? I could suck you off.” 

Louis swallows visibly, but shifts his thigh away, eyes flickering down. “Like I said, big fucking ego.” 

Harry tries to read his expression and then tries even harder to hide the disappointment on his face when Louis rolls off the bed again and stretches. He leans down to pick up the empty bottle and toss it in the general direction of the bin. 

“You should get going,” he says, tilting his chin at Harry.

Harry gnaws on his lip. “You sure? We could-” 

“Nah,” Louis cuts him off. “Not a good idea, man.” Stuffing his hands into his trackies makes him look smaller, shoulders hunched, and Harry slides off the bed to close the space between them but then decides otherwise. 

He tousles his hair, smoothes it back, shrugging. “Alright,” he says. “I’m, you know, outside if you need anything.” 

“Yeah,” Louis replies. “Sure.” He doesn’t look like he’ll be needing Harry, and Harry tells himself that that’s okay. They’ve both got their moods sometimes or maybe the timing isn’t good, and if it’s not then that’s alright as well. Harry can respect that. And it’s not like this is their first tour; Harry knows that Louis will come around. He always does.

He leaves, ignores the knot forming in his stomach, tries to undo it with a few collected, deliberate breaths. Maybe he will go to hot yoga in the evening before the show, he thinks; maybe he will get wasted after instead. Either way, both will give him peace of mind, is what he tells himself.

*

Louis, however, doesn’t really come around. He presses close in front of Cristo, his skin warm and moist from the heat, but later when Harry goes to find him in his room, he’s gone off to play football. Harry texts him with a beer emoji and a question mark and a clock to indicate later, but Louis texts back that he’s not really in the mood for drinking.

Harry hangs out with Ben instead, and makes new friends at the pool, finds a new route to run every morning and pretends he doesn’t go to bed thinking about calling Louis. He wouldn’t, he realizes the evening before their day in South America, wouldn’t even know what to say to him because it’s not like Louis is being a prick to him. There’s not really anything to work out here except for the fact that Harry hasn’t really got any in too long, and their usual tour arrangement suddenly seems to be off the table solely by Louis’ decision. 

He could, he supposes, find somebody else to fuck quite easily, but it wouldn’t be the same. He wants a body that he knows and that he’s familiar with, and he wants hands and a mouth that know him just as well. If he’s being completely honest, he just wants _Louis_ , and he’s not sure how to tell him, and if he should at all. 

They play their last show in Sao Paulo, and then return to London. Harry is still buzzing from the voices and the sun, the energy of Brazil, and stepping off the plane into the grey English weather has him frowning and burying into his hoodie more deeply. 

Louis and he sat across from each other on the plane, Louis curled up in a thick blanket, earphones in. But even with Louis’ feet tucked between Harry’s chair and his thigh, it felt like they were separated by an impenetrable barrier. There is something off between them and Harry can’t pinpoint what it is exactly.

He hugs everyone as they leave, pulls Louis close and presses his nose into his hair before he can step away. Usually, he would try and make arrangements now while they’re both still in London – he faintly remembers Louis mentioning something about Barcelona – but he’s scared that Louis will just brush him off again.

Louis looks up, lips drawn into a half smile, eyes tired, and pats Harry’s cheek like he’s a small child. “Off you go, H.”

“Hey,” Harry says. “I’ll call you, yeah? I’ll be around town for a couple of days.”

Louis looks down, then shrugs him off, stepping back, still smiling. “I’ll probably be busy,” he says. “See you.”

Harry feels his face fall, feels the sting. He clutches his bag more tightly and watches Louis go: his hair held back in a black hair band, socks pulled up over his sweatpants. He will be, Harry suspects, sleeping through the next day or two to adjust to the change in time zone. Harry can’t decide if that truly counts as being _busy_.

*

Harry remembers Nick telling him, “Mate, all that yoga has gone to your _head_ ,” when Harry had told him that he’s found his zen. His continued amusement through Harry’s recount of the most recent book he’s read, left Harry feeling a bit embarrassed and even more determined to stick to his new conviction.

Now, sitting in his half-empty flat, with a cup of green tea and a mess of wires and remote controls spread out on the living room rug around him, Harry doesn’t really want to accept things as they come. He ordered fried chicken and chips earlier, and sat in the kitchen licking the grease off his fingers whilst staring at his phone, hoping against the odds that Louis would call or text, feeling very sorry for himself. 

He also tried to set up his brand new telly, stripped the protective film off the screen and messed with the settings and the connecting wires, but got nothing but static. 

Now he’s moping, messing with the settings on his phone after having tried to google something that would help him set up the electronics; he’s ended up scrolling through the last dozen texts he exchanged with Louis, gnawing on his lip, his stomach in a knot. 

Their thing was never something they talked about because they didn’t have to. It worked without much talking; a tour thing, but one that left them connected beyond tour. Not just physical affection, but comfort and friendship and falling asleep together. 

Harry was okay with being separated while they weren’t on the road because he knew they’d just snap back to being _them_. He was alright with it because it meant he would be with Louis again sooner or later, but now it seems different and the thought leaves him aching. 

He taps through the options on his phone until he gets to Louis’ contact and presses call before his brain fully processes what his fingers are doing. The first ring sends a chilling shock down his spine and he holds his breath, certain that Louis won’t pick up anyway. He counts, _one, two, three-_ , and then Louis’ sleepy voice sounds through the speaker.

“‘ello?” He’s familiarly hoarse, like he just woke up, voice thick. 

“Hi,” Harry says. “Sorry, did I wake you up?” 

“Mhm,” Louis says, but nothing else. Harry wishes he was there and could slip into bed with him and curl around him and watch him fall asleep again maybe. 

“I’m-” he starts, but then doesn’t know how to continue. “I tried to set up my telly,” he finally evades lamely. “But I gave up when I almost toppled it over. I don’t think it wants to be set up by me.”

“Mhm,” Louis repeats.

Harry hides his head between his knees, frowning. “I think it’s waiting for a worthy person.”

“A worthy person?” Louis echoes. 

Harry pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and nods. “Yeah, somebody who spends all his time watching the telly and doing not much else. Maybe having some beer and crisps. A true telly person.” He pauses and when Louis stays quiet, continues, “Not some hippie weirdo like me. I think it was offended by my green tea. I need you, Tommo, to save my telly. The future of my watching anything ever lies in your hands.”

“Fuck you, man,” Louis grunts, yawning, seemingly waking up, “I do other things, too.”

“Sure you do,” Harry replies, grinning. He drags it out a bit because he knows Louis hates it. 

“Tell somebody else to set up your bloody telly,” Louis snaps, but he doesn’t hang up. 

“I don’t trust anybody else,” Harry says. “C’mon, please, please? Don’t be mean to me when I really need your help, Lou. Do this thing for me, yeah? It won’t take long. Please?” 

There’s nothing for a long while, so long that Harry is almost afraid Louis just dropped his phone and went back to sleep, but then Louis sighs. “Alright. But you’re a prick for waking me up just so you can watch Great British Bake Off.” 

“You don’t understand,” Harry replies, grinning more, trying to keep his tone light. “I need my fix.” 

Louis snorts and hangs up. Harry drops his phone, his head still between his knees and staring at the screen, anticipation and excitement still making him smile. He should have a shower, he thinks, and put some water in the kettle so tea’s ready when Louis gets here. The thought blows up in his chest until he feels like he can’t contain it anymore. It leaves him feeling stupid and young. 

He convinces himself to get up eventually, thighs prickling from squatting for so long, stumbling to his feet and to the bathroom to reemerge some ten minutes later. He dries his hair and grabs a T-shirt and a pair of briefs and jeans from his bedroom, then gets dressed with water still dripping down his spine. A nagging voice in his head is mocking him for getting cleaned up like Louis hasn’t seen him filthy a hundred times before, but he ignores it and prepares some more green tea.

He starts on a cuppa for Louis, too, and as he tiptoes to grab the Twinings from the top shelf there’s a knock on the door. 

He twirls and knocks the cup off the counter. “Shit,” he curses and balances through the shards to the door where Louis is waiting with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trackies, face shaved clean, buried deeply in a wine-red hoodie. 

“Hiya,” Harry says, grinning. “How’d you-?” He gestures and Louis shakes his head at him, brows quirked. “Get in, I mean,” Harry explains. “Downstairs.” 

“Oh,” Louis shrugs and slips past him, ducking under his arm into the flat, the top of his head, his soft hair tickling Harry’s skin. “Somebody was leaving, and I remembered your flat number.” He proceeds to toe off his shoes and Harry shuts the door, following him through the hall into the open kitchen. 

“Careful,” he says and Louis turns, smiling a bit, squinting, but keeps walking despite Harry’s warning. There’s still shards on the floor and Harry catches up in one large step and gently grabs Louis’ waist to stop him. 

“I kind of broke a mug,” he says, feeling sheepish. “Knocked it right over.”

“Klutz.” Louis rolls his eyes, but he drops down to one knee anyway when Harry does, and helps collect the remainders of the cup, dropping them in Harry’s hand one by one. Harry watches him and then gets up too quickly when Louis looks up. 

He discards everything in the bin and Louis dusts off his hands over the sink, maybe accidentally bumps into Harry. He’s small and soft and Harry wants to put his arm around him and kiss the side of his neck, see if he still wears the same cologne as three months ago or if he wears any at all this time. 

He stares for another moment, allows Louis to catch him doing so, and then turns away and grabs another mug from the shelf to get started on Louis’ tea again. 

Louis turns around and rests his elbows on the worktop, his socked feet crossed at the ankles. “You need help with anything else? Dropped a mirror? Spilled some rice?” he mocks. Harry huffs out a laugh and tops Louis’ mug up with hot water.

“Nah,” he says, intentionally offhand, “I only need you for the telly.” He jerks his head back toward the telly, then slides past Louis to the fridge to grab the milk. “Which, by the way, is calling for you.”

“Is it now?” Louis grunts. 

“Listen carefully,” Harry says, then drops his voice, half-whispering, “Louis, _Louis_ , fix me, please, fix me.” 

Louis blanks at him, his eyebrows vanishing into his fringe, and makes an exasperated noise, not quite a laugh. “Haha, you’re an idiot,” he says and he pushes off the counter to waltz past Harry into the open living room, the bright light from the glass front turning him into a shadow, a silhouette until he drops down behind the kitchen island.

Harry hesitates, lips pursed, then finishes preparing Louis’ tea, suddenly feeling uncertain about what to do with Louis now that he’s got him here. He pours himself a cup of green tea, takes a few sips and then finds some biscuits in the cupboard. He arranges everything on a tray and decides there should be crisps, too. He repeats this with chocolates, and then once more with the odd box of candied figs that’s been on the shelf since Christmas, and then can’t think of anything else to add. He grabs the tray, walking around the island to the telly and the coffee table. He puts everything down and grabs a biscuit to nibble on, shuffling his feet.

Louis has taken over the rug, sitting cross-legged, a remote control and a mess of wires in his lap. His brows are furrowed in undivided focus, his jumper tossed carelessly onto the sofa. The telly’s on now, spewing white noise and static much like before but the green light on the Blu-ray player is blinking and the HD receiver seems to be doing something, now, too. 

Harry takes a step closer and finishes off his treat, stopping next to Louis. “What’s wrong, doctor?” he asks. He looks down at the auburn crown of Louis’ hair. It’s soft and lacking product, and Harry’s gaze wanders down Louis’ neck and shoulders where his skin is exposed. 

“You’re missing a connecting thing,” Louis says, still not looking up. “To the receiver. Blu-ray should work, though, I reckon. Playstation, too, if you’ve still got one.”

“Hm,” Harry says. The hair on Louis’ nape is curling, a little darker like it’s moist, like he showered and washed his hair before coming here and was in too much of a hurry to dry it all the way. Harry reaches down before he can stop himself and touches Louis’ neck, gently digs his fingers into his hair against the growth. 

Louis reacts exactly as one would expect a cat being rubbed the wrong to. He bats at Harry’s hand, almost keeling over, but it’s too late. Harry’s felt it already, the sheen of a fresh shower on his skin. It makes his heart beat faster, a mix of excitement and satisfaction that he wasn’t the only one. 

“Eager much?” Louis says, frowning. He sounds tired, though, and there isn’t much force behind it. He doesn’t mean it. Harry can’t help but smirk a little, rocking back and forth on his heels with how giddy he suddenly feels. 

“A bit,” he admits. He ducks down and squats next to Louis, catching his neck in his hand again. There is no resistance this time, but Louis doesn’t lean in either. He blinks at Harry, eyes wide, wetting his lips. Harry is quite certain that he’s got no clue what he’s doing, but this makes it even worse. “And why not?” 

“Came here to fix your telly,” Louis says slowly. He tugs at the wires in his lap and waves the remote control at Harry like it will dissuade and distract him. It doesn’t. Harry’s had countless visits from Louis, for lunch and tea and to watch films and get drunk; he’s seen Louis at his worst because Louis is alright with it, because Louis doesn’t mind showing up jetlagged and tired from an international flight, unshowered and unshaven when it’s _just Harry_ , and has told Harry as much. 

“Right,” Harry says, dragging the syllable out. He rubs his thumb in a circle right where Louis’ neck meets his shoulder, where his hair curls a little bit, and this time Louis does lean in, eyes bright and focused on Harry. Harry can’t remember the last time Louis looked at him like this – maybe sometimes last year, in a haze of heat and laughter, Japan or Australia or New Zealand, any one of these places before the tour had ended – and he most certainly can’t remember Louis ever looking at him like that when they were off tour. 

This is Louis coming here with a purpose – coming here to get _fucked_. The thought makes Harry’s cheeks heat up and he swallows down a lump of arousal, breathing in through his nose under Louis’ intense stare. 

He leans in, if only to save himself from losing his cool, and noses against Louis’ neck, sliding his hand up Louis’ scalp to dig into his hair and hold him in place. It’s more instinct and pragmatism than anything else. He needs something to hold onto when the scent of Louis’ shampoo floods his senses – but Louis inhales loudly, his body tensing up. 

“I love that you showered for me,” Harry whispers against Louis’ skin; he’s not thinking, brain-to-mouth filter completely out of order. There’s a part of him that wishes he weren’t so confident in this, that advises caution and that’s tense and nervous that Louis will reject him again, but it’s all numbed down to a barely-there sensation, buried under what every cell in his body is screaming for, his instinct urging him on. 

“Need something?” He turns his head and nudges his nose against Louis’ cheek and Louis’ hand finds his biceps and squeezes, nails digging into Harry’s skin. It only makes everything so much clearer, sharper. He can’t believe, he thinks stupidly, that he’s managed to be without this for months, that he’s held back on touching him after Louis was close by again. 

“Sod off,” Louis murmurs back. He shifts, however, pushing his nose against Harry’s and presses their lips together in a dry and tentative kiss. 

Harry can feel him breathing through his nose, feels his heart race where his hand is on his neck, still, feels it flutter and stumble and catch up like it tripped. His own breath is caught in his throat and he’s overwhelmed for a moment like he rarely is. There’s never anything that shakes Harry as much as Louis does, for better or for worse, and this now has him teetering on the edge of a cliff with the wind caught between his fingers. 

Louis pulls back a second later, tries to untangle himself. His face looks fallen, and Harry realizes that he didn’t kiss him back. He dives in again and covers his mouth with his own, tugs him closer by his hair and holds him there whilst he swipes his tongue against his bottom lip, urges Louis to reciprocate, which he does almost instantly and with the tiniest, involuntary sound that makes Harry’s abs contract with need. 

He presses in and makes Louis open up, kisses him until he tastes spearmint. Louis is breathing hard through his nose and he moves his hand down to Harry’s thigh to hold onto. It makes Harry smile into the kiss and he breaks away, trailing his lips down the line of Louis’ jaw to suck at his neck. 

“You smell so good,” he breathes and Louis answers with a guttural moan, pushing at Harry’s thigh first, then at his chest until Harry loses balance and topples over onto the rug, something – probably a wire or a DVD or the remote – digging painfully into the small of his back. He shifts, wiggles his bum to get off it, but stops when Louis straddles him. 

His hair is in his face, his cheeks flushed and red and his mouth cherry-kissed, glossy like he’s been sucking a lolly. He settles into Harry’s lap, his hands on Harry’s abdomen, and looks up through his fringe. 

“Fuck,” Harry manages, half-choked because he can’t help it; he’s so turned on just from this, from the promise of Louis’ body, from the look on his face, from the way his trackies are slightly bulging already. He rocks up, his cock fattening up in his jeans against Louis’ bum, half-hard and a bit uncomfortable and trapped, but still so, so good. 

Louis drags his hands up Harry’s chest, slips them under his T-shirt and teases along his sensitive sides, and Harry has to hold his breath and bite his lip to stay still. He moans and dips his head back, eyes closed, when Louis’ fingers find his nipples and flick over them. Louis stays like that, cupping Harry’s pecs, and Harry inhales deeply and drags his hands up Louis’ thighs, squeezes where they’re strongest from running and football, feels the muscles work against his hands. 

He opens his eyes again and Louis sits back again; he rakes his fingers through his hair, pushes it back and undulates his hips in one single movement like he’s giving Harry a show. His biceps twitch and Harry thrusts up again, moaning, eyes dropping down to the long curve of Louis’ fat knob in his trackies. 

They’re never this quiet and Harry can’t take it, he needs some feedback here, needs to know what Louis wants, needs to know that Louis _does_ want it. 

“Take your top off?” he rasps, voice catching in his throat, and Louis’ hips twitch down, his tongue flicking out against his lips. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he asks and Harry nods, too quickly, face growing hot again. He hates and loves that Louis makes him feel like that, caught by surprise because it hasn’t happened in so long. 

“Quite,” he replies, digging his fingers into Louis’ thighs until Louis gasps. “Show me your tits, babe.”

“Got no tits, sorry to disappoint,” Louis shoots back, eyes narrowing. He tugs his T-shirt off swiftly, body curving a little, waist bent, tummy drawn in, and drops it at the side. He’s still tanned from Jamaica, all golden and smooth save for the trail of flaxen hair leading down to where Harry wants to get his hands the most.

“Think you can get it up without something to fondle?” Louis asks, his brows drawn up; he’s watching Harry like a hawk, like he’ll come down at him the moment Harry says the wrong bloody thing. 

“I’m already there,” Harry replies carefully, half-smiling, keeping his voice as even as possible. He grabs Louis’ arse, squeezes, and rides up against it, aware that Louis must feel him even through his jeans. Harry’s big enough to dent them, knows that the press of it barely between Louis’ arse cheeks must be tangible, but Louis’ mouth draws into a smirk. His hand comes down on Harry’s chest and he uses the new angle for better leverage to grind down. 

“Don’t feel a thing.” Louis’ tone betrays his words, but Harry frowns at him anyway, mouth twitching. “Used to be more here,” Louis continues, his arse tensing against Harry’s hands, his cock. “Insignificant then, too, though.”

He holds Harry’s gaze steady, the color in his cheeks staining all the way down over his neck and chest. Harry grips his arse harder and lifts him off onto the rug and Louis squeaks in surprise, flailing for balance, struggling to hold onto something. Harry slides forward between his knees once he hits the floor; he grips the back of his thighs and keeps him pinned like that. His head feels light, body buzzing. Louis mouth is open, inviting, and Harry climbs over him and kisses into it, holding Louis’ jaw in his hand. It’s rough this time, their teeth knocking unpleasantly, and Louis moans into it loudly, whines, his body coming off for his hips to meet Harry’s. 

It takes a considerable amount of effort for Harry to sit back, toes digging into the rug; his thighs are tensing and relaxing, heart racing. Louis is gorgeous, skin beautiful, and his hair a mess. He swallows tightly and takes his T-shirt off, makes sure to not lose eye contact, and then trails his hands down to his flies. He undoes the button and the zip, the metal dragging over his dick, making him shiver. He pushes his jeans down, but keeps his pants on, and palms his cock until it’s fully hard, fat and hard against his hand. 

Louis pushes himself up on his elbows, his hips fucking tiny circles into the floor and up again like he’s riding Harry in reverse cowboy. He’s staring unashamedly and Harry grins, juts his hips out to make his bulge even more obvious than it already is. He keeps his eyes on Louis and circles himself with thumb and forefinger, squeezing, gasps, arse clenching, hips twitching. 

“You come here for this?” he asks, carefully keeping his voice calm. For a moment he thinks that Louis isn’t fooled, that he can see right through Harry and see how nervous he is, will call him out on it, but Louis’ gaze flicks up and he blinks rapidly, like he was lost somewhere else for a second there, and Harry watches his throat work without sound for a second. 

“I came to fix your bloody telly,” Louis finally says, emphasizing each word, staccato like it means anything – like it’ll give all this _less_ meaning.

Harry wiggles his jeans over his bum, mindful to keep his underwear on. The tension between them is making the hairs on his arms stand up. It seems it’s easier in hotel rooms and bunk beds, simpler when no admissions need to be made. He inhales through his nose, wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. 

“Don’t care about the telly.” He holds his breath until his chest hurts, ghosts his hand down his own chest back to his cock to cup the crown through the elastic band of his briefs. “I just wanted to see you.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Louis says softly. He sits up and tugs Harry down by his necklaces, the chain cutting into his neck until the pain gets lost in the overwhelming sensation of their chests pressed together, skin to skin. 

They kiss again and Harry lets Louis lead, lets him sweeten the kiss. He moans into it with little sounds of pleasure that Louis answers with breathy mewls. He’s so hard he feels like he’s going to combust and Louis’ dick pressed into his hip has him rutting down in a haze until Louis shifts a little, pushes his trackies and pants out of the way, squirms out of them so he’s stark naked. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, breaking away to look down Louis’ chest to where the pink, wet head of Louis’ cock is nestled against his belly. He wants to get down there and get his mouth on it, suck it and get his fingers inside Louis and fuck him through it, but Louis hooks his feet around Harry’s thighs and pulls him in. He tilts his hips up until Harry’s cock is cradled between his arse cheeks, separated by only the flimsiest layer of soaked through fabric. 

“Harry,” he groans and Harry gets his hand between them, tugs his pants down and grips his dick to rub it into Louis’ cleft, cursing under his breath. It catches against Louis’ rim and Louis sobs out a moan, cupping his own dick. 

“You’re so- fuck,” he says desperately, rocking up, moisture dribbling over the head of his cock and his hand. He squirms again and reaches between his legs, fingers tracing over Harry’s cock, framing the base. Harry inhales and holds his breath, staring transfixed at Louis’ small hand curling around his dick, watching him stroke and squeeze. Louis moans again, a needy sob, and when Harry looks up, he bites his lip, looking embarrassed but turned on. He wavers before moaning, “It feels so good, I need-” 

“Oh god,” Harry grits out, eyes fluttering shut. His stomach tenses and he almost comes like this, cock leaving bursts of precome against Louis’ taint. “Fuck, Louis-” 

He gathers Louis’ legs up to them behind his knees and forces them apart, fucks down against him, once, twice, with sweat gathering on his forehead. Louis’ body curves off the rug, tiny nipples pink and swollen, perky, tummy sucked in. His lips are parted and Harry wants to fuck him like that, leaves bruises and marks on him. 

He sits back, awkwardly struggles to get rid of his jeans and pants, keeping his eyes on Louis, who’s spread out for him, the wet of Harry’s dick still staining moist between his arse cheeks, his balls, like he’s marked him. 

Harry has seen it all before, tasted everything, but still this feels more intimate – this is more than them happening to be in the same room, horny at the same time, this isn’t just convenience. He cups Louis’ knee in his hand, slides it up the inside of his thigh, where the skin is soft, his hair fine and ticklish against Harry’s palm. It always was more than that, for him anyway, he thinks, chest pounding. 

Louis licks his lips again and Harry halts, a sudden vision of Louis’ mouth wrapped around his cock flashing through him. 

“Can I- will you let me fuck your mouth?” he gasps, squeezing. Louis’ expression wavers for a moment, shoulders tensing up. If possible, the blush on his chest deepens more and he nods, looking down, lashes thick against his cheeks. He kneels and scoots closer, kisses the corner of Harry’s mouth like he’s suddenly shy, his dick bobbing. 

“Do you wanna sit on the sofa?” he asks; his fingers draw a circle on Harry’s hip, then come around and curl around his cock, his palm grazing the head, smearing slick everywhere. 

Harry grits his teeth and shuts his eyes so hard he sees stars, then finally nods when he feels like he’s not going to nut into Louis’ hand the moment either of them moves. “Gonna come, though,” he admits, whispering against Louis’ mouth. “Don’t think I can hold back.” 

“That’s okay,” Louis mumbles back, leaving wet kisses against his chin. He starts walking forward on his knees, forcing Harry back until his spine hits the edge of the sofa. They’re still kissing, tiny pecks and licks that have Harry feeling exhilarated. He pulls himself up on the sofa, sitting at the edge, and parts his knees to make room for Louis to sit. 

Louis tentatively moves closer and Harry tilts his hips up, hand around his dick. He nudges it up until it hits Louis’ mouth with a dirty sound. 

“Please?” he asks and Louis looks up, smiling at Harry with a mixture of fondness and arousal, like a cat who’s found a pot of cream. He wraps his lips around the tip of Harry’s cock, sucking, puckered. Harry moans and drops his hand to push his fingers into Louis’ hair instead, thrusts up gently. He remembers a hotel room somewhere in America last year, Louis pulling off, frowning and coughing and slapping his bum hard, telling him that he wasn’t a bloody blow-up doll. 

Now Louis takes it all, leans closer with his head tilted so Harry can fuck inside; his cheeks are hollowed and his lips curled, more practiced than Harry remembers him being. He sucks gently, skilled, and Harry moans loudly, can’t help the twinge of jealousy biting through him at the thought of Louis on his knees for somebody else, sucking somebody else’s knob. He tightens his grip on Louis’ hair and Louis looks straight up at him, expectant, eyes wide with encouragement. Harry sucks in a breath and rolls his hips up, holding Louis in place. 

His dick slides in further, Louis’ lips dragging, catching deliciously against his foreskin, and Harry pulls him down until he feels the head of his cock press against the tight closure of his throat. He tenses his thighs, balls drawn up and tight, and carefully inches in deeper, straining with the effort not to just dick inside. Louis relaxes, however, eyes watering, and allows Harry to squeeze in and hold him down there for a moment. 

“Oh god,” Harry moans, “oh god, Louis-” 

Louis’ throat clamps down around the head of his cock and he nudges in further and further, feels himself twitch. Louis’ fingers press into his knees harshly, eyes filling up, cheeks blotched like red ink, and Harry shifts to pull out, rotates back in a second later when Louis looks ready again. It gets easier then after a few thrusts, spit gathering on Louis’ lips, his chin, as Harry fucks his mouth; it’s loud and messy and Louis keeps moaning, his sounds vibrating up Harry’s cock. 

He scoots closer to the edge, curls his second hand around Louis’ head too before he can think about what he’s about to do. But Louis tilts his head back greedily, sucks harder like he wants it. He touches Harry’s hips and urges him up, breathing hard through his nose, and Harry fucks in deep, holds Louis there, Louis’ throat like a vice around him. He feels Louis swallow, feels him trying to breathe, and moves one hand to cup his neck and throat, squeezing. Louis makes a desperate noise, eyes flying open. He chokes, gags, his hands grasping at Harry’s wrists, and Harry sobs out a moan and shoots off, barely pulling out. 

Louis coughs, catching himself against Harry’s thighs, eyes wide. He pulls away, come and spit dribbling down his chin, swallows and wipes his mouth. It shouldn’t be sexy, shouldn’t be so fucking hot, because Louis looks like a bloody mess, but Harry moans anyway, softening dick oversensitive as Louis swipes his tongue over it to clean him up. 

“You fucked up my throat,” Louis croaks when he’s done, voice barely recognizable, and Harry covers his eyes with his hand, groaning. He slides down to the floor, body boneless and blissfully relaxed, and kisses into Louis’ mouth to taste himself there. 

It lasts for a few moments, lazy and soft, and Harry tugs Louis close, strokes his hands over his skin where it feels like it’s on fire. There is something more compliant about Louis now, like the tension has drained from him, and he’s responsive and moaning into their kiss. 

This feels more like them again, like the comfort that’s always been between them, and Harry trails his hands up Louis’ sides, his waist, his ribs, flicks his thumbs over his nipples to evoke a shiver, and then cups his face and kisses him some more. 

“Hey, my dick is hard,” Louis whispers into the kiss, and Harry laughs, kissing down his neck. He finds the small of Louis’ back and holds him there, ducks down to lick the salt off his nipple, rolls it between his his lips and teeth until Louis is gasping. 

Louis grunts and smacks the back of his head, making Harry yelp. “My _dick_ ,” he repeats. “You know the big thing down there? Might use it to slap you ‘round the face if you don’t hurry up?”

“Oh.” Harry shrugs, foolish, smiling, and wraps his hand around Louis’ dick. He strokes up gently, the skin velvety soft, and rubs his thumb in messy circles over the slick head of it until Louis’ hips are jerking up and he’s breathing fast again, whimpering. 

“Missed this,” Harry moans, watching. “It’s been so long, I missed this so much-” He can’t seem to stop babbling, barely cuts himself off before he can say anymore, focusing on Louis’ dick instead, the way it curves up and slightly to the right, pink and thick and leaking. “Missed you so much.”

“Can we- not now-,” Louis moans. He unfolds his legs and spreads them on either side of Harry’s knees, sits back on his hands, rocking up into the circle of Harry’s fingers. Harry stares at the V of his hips as he rocks up and down, can almost see his hole and it makes his mouth go dry with want. He lets go of Louis’ dick and hoists Louis’ thigh up against his chest instead to reveal the tiny pink pucker between his legs. 

“Perv,” Louis says airily, moaning anyway when Harry teases his thumb against it, pressing in. His cock is half-hard again and he gives himself a couple of good rubs until it fills up his other hand, hard and pink at the tip. 

He wants to tell Louis again that he missed this and missed him, but instead he leans in and kisses Louis’ cock, along the fat vein, down to his balls. Louis whimpers again and hooks his arms under his knees and pulls himself open and Harry places his mouth against his taint, then his hole, noses against his scrotum and flicks his tongue out against the tight rim of muscles. He licks around it and kisses it, feels it contract and try to pull him in. 

“Shit, Harry,” Louis sobs, each word accompanied by a full-body shiver. Harry presses in closer, still gripping his cock in one hand, and licks a long stripe up Louis’ arse with the flat of his tongue, then returns to his hole with tiny kisses along the rim only to dip his tongue in.

It strains his jaw to get inside and he feels saliva wet his chin, but doesn’t care much. Breathing heavily through his nose, he nudges inside, pushes until Louis is shaking and rutting up and trying to fuck himself against his tongue. 

“Fuck me now,” he gasps and suddenly tugs at Harry’s hair. Harry hisses, but stays put, fastening his lips around Louis’ hole to get deeper inside, get him wetter. He sucks around it and lets go of his cock in favor of pressing his middle finger in past his lips, pushing and moving until it pops inside. 

Louis squeaks, body coming off the floor again, arching. “Harry-” he moans and Harry pushes deeper until his finger is inside to the second knuckle. He sits up and turns his hand to fuck Louis with it, thrusting it inside while Louis’ body goes soft around it. 

He tries to add another finger, but Louis isn’t wet enough, and he frowns and looks around. “Shit,” he says, nudging his finger up a bit. Louis croaks, thighs falling open, quivering. 

“Do another,” he demands, “don’t be a bloody tease.”

“I forgot the lube,” Harry admits guiltily. Louis groans in frustration and Harry pulls away, stumbling to his feet. “I’ll be right back.” He feels shaky, hurrying to his bedroom, where he digs through his bedside drawer for lube and condoms. 

When he returns, Louis has moved to the sofa, discarded all the cushions, and is stretched out with his back propped up in a corner. 

“Didn’t want to get carpet burn,” he says and Harry joins him, crawling on top of him again. 

“I would’ve made you ride me,” he mumbles, searching Louis’ face for a reaction, and drops the items between their legs. 

“Even worse,” Louis whispers back. He shifts until his body is underneath Harry’s and wraps his legs around his waist again, his arse aligned with Harry’s crotch. It’s more of an invitation than Harry usually gets from him, so he squeezes some lube onto his hand and gets his fingers wet, then teases along Louis’ hole again. 

He’s tightened up a little in the interim, but Harry wiggles inside easily anyway, getting him loose with one finger first. He leans in and starts sucking on his nipples, alternating, then slides a second finger in alongside the first when it feels like Louis is ready. 

Louis answers with a breathy _fuck_ , meeting Harry’s fingers as he starts fucking them inside more earnestly. He’s more quiet now, more moans and whines than loud noises, like he’s holding back a little bit. Harry adds a third for good measure, fucks all three into Louis until sweat starts gathering on Louis’ tummy, until he’s gripping the backrest hard enough to show his knuckles in white. 

“Harry-” he grunts, “it’s good now- just-”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, partly because he really wants to make sure and partly because he wants Louis to ask for it. The thought has his dick twitch with anticipation and he fumbles for a condom, clumsily rips it open and rolls it on messily with lube-slick fingers even before Louis has said anything.

He waits another moment, but all Louis does is hook one foot under his arse and tug Harry closer so his dick nudges into the crease of his bum. It slithers up, knocks into Louis’ balls and Harry grabs the base and aligns himself, rubbing the head over Louis’ hole. 

“Yeah,” Louis breathes finally, and Harry sucks at his bottom lip and presses inside. Louis inhales, tangibly holds his breath, and Harry goes deliberately slow, pushes the fat crown of his cock in. 

He watches Louis stretch around it, watches his hole cling to the width, and when he pops inside, it feels so that he thinks he’s going to come like this, with just the head in. He rocks his hips a little, fucks inside slowly, his ears filled with his own breathing, his rushing blood. Louis is mewling again, tiny sounds, rough and hoarse, and Harry drops his body down, holds himself up with one arm and takes the last inches in one long stroke. 

Louis tenses up around him, moaning, and Harry croaks out his name, pulls out and rocks back inside. Louis’ body is tight and hot around him, clinging and clenching, and after a few moments Louis begins meeting him in the middle until their bodies move in unison. 

Harry speeds up, sweat making his vision blurry, his body covered in electric outbursts all over his skin, creeping down his spine and to his cock. He can hear himself babbling, moaning, nonsense, and Louis answers it, brows furrowed. 

He’s fucking himself against Harry’s cock, whining, and his hand finds Harry’s hair, holding on. “Fuck me harder-” he begs and Harry sobs out a moan and does, digging his fingers into the cushions for better leverage, shoving into him. Louis arches up and catches Harry’s mouth against his own, kisses at his lips. 

“I’m close,” he moans and Harry nods, suddenly overwhelmed by the billowing pull of his own orgasm. 

He gropes around for Louis’ hand and finds it, tugs it up over his head and laces their fingers together to squeeze and hold it while Louis fumbles for his own dick to pull himself off. He tenses around Harry’s cock and Harry leans down and kisses him again, sucking on his tongue and lips, losing focus quickly. 

Louis comes with a hoarse sob, body jerking, going taut, and Harry wants to make it last and drag it out, but it sweeps him along. He drops his forehead against Louis’ neck and comes, golden-blue electricity shooting up his spine, through the palms of his hands, his groin. He blanks out, moaning loudly into Louis’ skin, and comes back with his head feeling like cotton wool. 

He pulls out tenderly and to Louis wincing and hissing and discards the condom behind the sofa to deal with later. Louis’ body is too inviting, too warm, to think of anything else, so he drops against him again, burrows against his chest, kisses his collarbone. 

“You’re too heavy,” Louis complains, but strokes Harry’s calf with his foot anyway, toes digging in. 

“I’ll fall asleep like this, watch me,” Harry yawns, smiling. He turns his head to press his ear against Louis’ chest, listens to his heartbeat. 

“I’d rather have a shower and then some tea,” Louis replies a bit belatedly. He strokes Harry’s hair and wiggles out from under him, getting up and looking wobbly on his feet. Harry props himself up and resists the urge to reach out and take his hand to stop him before Louis pads off toward Harry’s bathroom. 

He doesn’t look back or invite Harry along and Harry rolls onto his back and pushes his hands over his face, mind racing. He stumbles up and follows Louis into the bathroom where the sound from the shower masks his steps. Louis is under the stream already with his eyes closed and Harry stops and stares, can’t muster up the courage to speak for a lot longer than he’d like.

“Louis,” he manages finally. “Lou.”

Louis turns, blinks at him, hair flattened to his head, and Harry jerks his chin. “Can I come in?”

Louis shrugs at that and steps aside, making room for Harry to join him, but continues washing himself. He’s quiet again, and it makes Harry’s chest ache. 

“I meant it,” he says over the sound of the water. “What I said. That I missed you.”

Louis freezes for a split second, but then pushes water off his face, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, it’s not like we spent the past eight months together. Can’t get enough of me?”

Harry opens and closes his mouth, then shrugs, nodding. “I can’t,” he admits. “I missed this, all of it. Us. You.”

Louis narrows his eyes again and he purses his lips before carefully forming them into another smile. “You mean, the sex?” He tilts his head and then shrugs, looks down, and Harry heart skips a painful beat. 

“No, that’s not-” he starts but Louis pokes his belly, still wearing his careful smile. 

“It’s okay, H,” he says. “You’re all set now, though, aren’t you? It was good, yeah?” 

“I missed you, just _you_ ,” Harry blurts out. He feels like a child, like Louis isn’t listening to him at all and it makes him hurt. “Not just the sex, everything.”

Louis looks down again, face hidden, seems to struggle for a few seconds. His voice is barely audible when he eventually says, “I missed it too.” He doesn’t elaborate and Harry frowns, confused. 

“I don’t understand,” he says bluntly, “if that’s what you wanted, then what’s the issue? Why wouldn’t you- in Rio?” He shrugs, feeling helpless. 

“You’re so stupid,” Louis says, finally meeting Harry’s eyes. “You make everything so bloody difficult and complicated.” He shakes his head and steps closer, goes up on his toes and presses a wet kiss to Harry’s lips. It’s a careful kiss, almost like goodbye and realization hits Harry so hard it has his mind reeling again; he wraps his arm around Louis’ waist before he can pull away and holds him there once he tries. 

“ _You’re_ so stupid,” he shoots back. 

“Everything about you is fucking difficult,” Louis insists; he doesn’t try to pull away again, however, still tiptoeing to be eye to eye with Harry. He stops to push at Harry’s chest, frowning, challenging. 

Harry’s throat feels closed up. He almost wants to insist on talking about it, wants to push Louis until he admits to whatever the fuck is going on. He knows he could. Louis looks vulnerable enough, but he’s still clinging to Harry, his lashes stuck together. 

“Will you stay the night?” Harry asks instead, stomach twisting. 

The silence between them stretches for too long, has Harry’s toes curling. Louis presses his thumb into one of the swallows on Harry’s collarbone, eyes dropping. His face is soft, lips curled, and Harry trails one hand up to his chest. 

“Yeah, okay.” Louis’ voice breaks at the end and he looks up. Under Harry’s hand Louis’ heartbeat speeds up, resonates with Harry’s own.

***

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://flimsi.tumblr.com)|[Livejournal](http://flimsy.livejournal.com)


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